No One Likes Grape
by whitchry9
Summary: Sherlock falls off a building, demands frozen treats (but never grape ones), and has legs like a newborn giraffe. Pretty standard week for John. 3 parts.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock looked down at his leg.

He would have been absolutely fascinated if it didn't hurt so damn much.

There was a bump where there should not have been, highly indicative of a broken leg. _Really? Really? Just highly indicative? Not even absolute? Shut up, brain is fuzzy, full of pain. Shut up. _

He looked at it for another second before a wave of nausea hit him.

_Don't throw up, please, no, don't throw up, _he begged himself.

He turned his head to the side, just in case, so he wouldn't get sick all over himself.

The wall was cool and scratchy against his head. _There was something I should do... what was it?_

Sherlock's brain was rather overwhelmed by the sheer amount of stimuli coming from the screaming nerves in his leg to remember. Which was a pity, considering that it was most likely important if he was thinking about it now.

_Think think think think... _he groaned. Did he? Must have been him, there's no one else around. _Why is there no one else? What was I doing here? And most importantly, where the hell is John?_

Sherlock swallowed against the wave of nausea that hit him as he thought about opening his mouth to call for John. _Why does it have to hurt so much? _His brain sluggishly started going through all the reasons for that before Sherlock shook his head, trying to get those thoughts out so he could focus on the ones that really mattered. Like where John was, and what he was doing here.

But shaking his head proved to be too much for him, and he threw up. The spasms sent shocks through his leg and nerve endings screamed for it to stop, for _anything _to happen to make it stop, even if it meant dying, because surely that was preferable.

Sherlock heard something that wasn't him. He was torn between calling out, because maybe it was John, or staying silent, because it could be the murderer they were tracking. _Was that what they were doing? Tracking a murderer? Curse this damn pain overloaded brain. _

* * *

Sherlock slipped away from reality for a bit, or at least he must have, because he had no recollection of moving from his position by the wall to the ambulance, and yet there he was.

"John," he called, panicking again. _Maybe John wasn't there, maybe he was hurt, or dead, or kidnapped, why did I leave him alone, why do I always do this to him, he should just stay home and that way I'd know he was safe._

Sherlock's internal berating was cut off by his hand being clasped and John's comforting reassurance that he was indeed there.

"Shh, Sherlock. It's okay. We're going to the hospital and there's no way you can try and get out of it this time."

Sherlock smiled weakly, and looked like he was about to protest, keeping up appearances, except the ambulance hit a bump and John could see him visibly pale.

_Don't throw up don't throw up please please not again. _

John must have recognized this look on Sherlock's face, because he grew more concerned.

"Do we have to roll you so you can throw up?" he asked anxiously.

Sherlock wanted to shake his head, but only then realized he was attached to a backboard, making that impossible. He settled for a noise, not wanting to open his mouth _just in case._

"Nuh."

John nodded. "Okay," he said softly. "Just let me know."

Sherlock sighed, perhaps a bit louder than intended, because John looked worried again. Or more, because he hadn't really stopped looking worried.

It was too much for Sherlock's pain ridden brain. Perhaps John could do something about that.

"John... hurts," he mumbled, not meeting his glance.

"I know," he said soothingly. "They've already given you some pain meds."

"More," Sherlock grunted.

John and the paramedic exchanged a glance.

Sherlock supposed that was a good thing, because shortly he felt himself slipping...

* * *

Sherlock had always hated dreams. They were illogical and pointless. He especially hated dreams that were fever induced or drug induced, as they were rather vivid and screwed up. It was why he never did hallucinogenics. He detested not being able to trust what was real, whether it was while he was awake, or when he was sleeping.

The drugs that he'd been given had the awful effect on him of producing extremely vivid dreams that he couldn't be entirely sure were dreams or not.

He made a mental note to inform John that drug was off the table when it came to pain management.


	2. Chapter 2

John looked critically at Sherlock, cataloguing his injuries.

Definite right tibia and fibula fracture that would need surgery. _No clue how he managed that. Oh wait, perhaps by falling off a building?_

Numerous bruises and abrasions to his right side.

Possible broken right wrist, but more likely bruised and sprained.

Laceration to his forehead, not deep enough to need stitches, but could indicate a mild head injury.

* * *

The orthopaedic surgeon on call was looking at John, waiting for a response to a question he hadn't hear.

"Sorry?"

"Are you his partner?" he repeated, obviously not pleased at having to say it again.

John blushed. "Erm... no. But I am his medical proxy."

The surgeon nodded, like it didn't matter to him, as long as he would get to operate.

"I'll need you to read these and sign them, Be sure to ask it you are unsure about anything Mr..."

"Doctor Watson," John supplied.

"Right," he said, shoving a clipboard in John's direction. "The pre-op nurse will be back in a little bit to answer any questions you may have and to prep him for surgery."

John nodded, and with that, the surgeon left.

He skimmed the consent forms, already knowing what the gist of it was, and signed the necessary blanks. He set that on the bedside table and pulled his chair closer to Sherlock, who was still out of it. The second drug that he's been given seemed to be lasting quite a long time, given Sherlock's drug history, but that was alright with John if it meant he didn't have to deal with Sherlock moaning about surgery and John making medical decisions for him.

* * *

Thankfully, Sherlock didn't wake up before he went to surgery. John settled in the waiting room with a two year old magazine about Hollywood relationships that seemed preposterous. He gave up on it after a total of five minutes and moved to pacing around the tiny room. He was thankful that he was the only one occupying it. That only lasted for about ten minutes until he was tired of that, and he gave up and went to the hospital cafeteria.

He choked down a sandwich after remembering he hadn't eaten since that morning, and seeing how it was getting dark out, he needed to eat because he wasn't Sherlock. That didn't even take half an hour.

He headed down to the morgue, hoping to see Molly and maybe have a chat with her, anything really to keep himself occupied, but she wasn't there.

John wandered around the hospital for a bit longer before returning to the waiting room, giving up on any hopes of avoiding boredom and figuring he may as well be there for when Sherlock came out of surgery.

Because knowing Sherlock, as soon as he could, nurses would be crying and doctors wouldn't be far behind. It was best to head that problem off before they even got there.

* * *

John spent an indeterminate amount of time that seemed agonizingly long before he was told Sherlock was out of surgery.

It was the same orthopaedic surgeon as before who came to tell him.

"Mr Holmes is out of surgery now," the man informed John flatly. "It went fine. You should be able to see him after he wakes up, probably in about an hour."

He turned to leave, but John scrambled to catch him, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"That might not be such a good idea," he told him, removing his hand when the surgeon glared at him. "Have you read any of the notes in his chart? Specifically related to how abrasive he can be, especially after just waking up from anaesthetic."

The surgeon didn't say anything, just continued glaring at John.

"It would be best if I was there when he awoke. For some unknown reason, he's calmer when I'm there."

The surgeon studied him for a moment in a way that reminded John of Sherlock a little.

"Fine," he said finally. He spun and led John down the hall to Sherlock's bed, and went to inform the nurses.

John settled himself in the small chair at the bedside and clasped Sherlock's hand carefully between his own. His right hand was not broken, but was badly bruised and scraped and was wrapped up. John held the one with the IV.

His leg was encased in a large plaster cast. John knew it was only temporary. When Sherlock left the hospital, probably in three days, it would be replaced by a much lighter fibreglass one.

The cut on his forehead had been cleaned during surgery, or some time shortly after, and steri-strips were holding it together.

John shook his head.

"Had to go and slip off a building, didn't you? Thank goodness it was only from the second story. And why might I ask?" he mocked, responding himself, "oh yes, it was an experiment. In what I might ask?" he asked himself. "Oh, experimenting with friction on multiple surfaces. It turns out that when roof tiles are wet, they tend to be rather slippery." John widened his eyes. "No kidding?"

He shook his head, hardly believing he was having a conversation with himself, let alone in front of Sherlock.

"Look what you've done to me," he told Sherlock, shaking his head yet again.

"Hardly my fault," Sherlock muttered without stirring.

"What the- Sherlock, you're supposed to still be knocked out."

"Since when does that mean anything?" he replied.

John glanced at his watch. It had only been half an hour since the surgeon retrieved him, half the time it should have taken for Sherlock to wake from anaesthesia.

Sighing, John replied, "Never. How are you feeling?"

Rolling his head slightly to face him, Sherlock examined John for a moment.

"Like I fell off a building." With a smirk, he added "Nice conversation you had with yourself there."

John groaned. "You heard that?"

"Of course."

John shook his head and collected himself before speaking to Sherlock again.

"You had surgery to-"

"Pin the bones in my leg, yes, yes," Sherlock interrupted. "Tibia and fibula fracture, internal fixation."

He shifted slightly, like he was testing something. "No broken ribs, but definitely bruised. Minor concussion. Bruised wrist." He raised his eyebrows, wincing as the skin around the laceration was pulled. "And a cut on my head." He looked to John for confirmation. "Anything else?"

John shook his head. "Spot on."

Sherlock smirked. "Of course."

"Are you in pain?" John asked anxiously.

"Of course I am," Sherlock snapped. "My leg is broken. Then they cut it open to shove bits of... whatever, metal or something in there. Of course it hurts."

His eyes glazed over for a minute.

"Cause I can get the doctor-"

"I didn't like those drugs," Sherlock interjected.

John frowned, not quite following. "Which ones?"

"The second dose that I was given in the ambulance. Not good."

John made a note to find out what drug that was, and make a reference to it on Sherlock's chart.

"Okay," he said gently. "It can be a different one. I'll go see, okay?"

For a split second, John thought Sherlock was going to tighten his grip on his hand, but at the last moment, loosened it and nodded to John.

* * *

John returned with a nurse and a different drug, dosed for Sherlock's tolerance.

He nodded off soon after, a fact that John was relieved about. He returned home to sleep and shower, intending to be back before Sherlock awoke.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock didn't get the memo, because a nurse phoned him at 6am, informing him that Sherlock was threatening to leave AMA, and could he please come and talk some sense into him before he falls out of bed and breaks the other leg?

John sighed, and shrugged on a jumper.

* * *

Sherlock was much more lucid when he arrived, lucid and grumpy, much like a toddler.

"I want to go home John," he pouted.

"I want to go on vacation," he replied.

Sherlock scowled at him. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought we were listing things we wanted but weren't going to happen any time soon."

"I took you to Dartmoor," he grumbled.

John raised an eyebrow. "For a case. That was not a vacation, especially considering you drugged me and we almost died. More than once."

Sherlock frowned, but didn't say anything.

John groaned. "Oh god, don't tell me that is your idea of a vacation!"

Sherlock looked away and fiddled with the bed covers.

"I don't even know you," he muttered.

* * *

That day was spent attempting to blog and keep Sherlock distracted, doing anything but devising ways to remove his cast, the most persistent being dripping water on it for hours.

"For god's sake Sherlock, you'll be getting a lighter one tomorrow! Just stop that," John scolded, swatting Sherlock's hand away and wiping up the water, feeling ever so much like a mother.

Sherlock scowled. "I want an ice lolly!" he declared. "Also, I'm bored."

John sighed and headed to the cafeteria, fingers crossed that they had lollies, and then stopped off at the paediatric floor to grab a puzzle.

"Really John?" Sherlock scoffed. "500 pieces? And _grape?_ No one likes grape." Sherlock ignored the ice lolly completely, leaving it to melt into a purple puddle, and focused on the puzzle, finishing it in less than an hour and bemoaning the missing pieces.

John took that chance to step out and phone Mrs Hudson, begging her to stop by a toy store and get a puzzle with the most possible pieces. It would be the only way he was going to make it to tomorrow.

* * *

"Crutches... Dull," Sherlock had declared.

John had been amused to watch him struggle with them for a full five minutes with the physical therapist's help, teetering around like a newborn giraffe. It was only when Sherlock started muttering facts about him under his breath that John decided to step in.

"I'll take it from here, thanks."

He nodded at him thankfully and wished them luck, scurrying out before John could change his mind.

"Haven't you used crutches before? I'm sure you've sprained an ankle, or a knee before. I'm assuming you didn't just run around on that?"

"Of course not," Sherlock snapped. "I've broken my ankle before too you know. I suppose I've... deleted how to work these," he growled, waving the crutches around.

"Perhaps it would be best to just not be climbing around on rooftops anymore, thereby reducing the likelihood you will break something."

"Dull!" Sherlock declared, getting halfway down the hall before collapsing into a pile of limbs, lime green cast, and dressing gown.

"You alright?" John called.

"Bruised," Sherlock muttered, not bothering to try and get up. Instead, he lifted a hand in the air and waited.

"What's bruised?" John asked, heaving Sherlock to his feet, careful of his leg.

"Just my dignity," Sherlock replied, spinning and heading back the other way, more carefully this time, making it into the room before crashing into the bed.

"About bloody time," John muttered, following him. He didn't need Sherlock breaking another bone before leaving the hospital.


End file.
